November 6, 2007

I am in my 30s. If one were to take an average of roughly 365.25 days/year, and 1 night sleep/day, it works out that I’ve slept well over 10,000 nights in my life. And—if I’m to be honest—about 8,000 days, too.

In those nights, for all I know, I’ve dreamed for all of them. For the most part, I sleep adequately, meaning that it’s pretty much a certainty that I’ve had tens of thousands of dreams; every one of which I’ve blissfully forgotten. I’ve never remembered a dream. For me, sleep is a fantastically perfunctory experience; I feel tired at night, I close my eyes, and a few seconds later, I open them again and it’s morning. Job done.

That is until this week. I have recently spent two awful nights, where sleep goes on for hours, accompanied by the awful ramblings of my subconscious. During my waking hours, I’m constantly harassed by the incessant ramblings of my conscious thoughts. Imagine my surprise to find out that my subconscious is orders of magnitude more inane, irrelevant and unpleasant.